Sunset swans

THIS is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!
  
Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
Emily Dickinson


A perfect midsummer evening: I walked five miles home through the thickening light, through woodland, cross cornfield and down by the creek - and there I met these swans, bathing in sunset.


(My extra picture shows them behaving badly to one of their own - the one who was swimming up hopefully to join them: "We all 'ates you!")